Try, Because This Compass is Bust
by Vanille Strawberry
Summary: Brittany feels her at the edges of her being every single second of every single day. She's felt her since the moment she set foot in New York City; as though a piece of her soul had been dormant all of this time and suddenly awakened at the insistence of the city's syncopated rhythm to begin searching. Brittana AU.


Disclaimer: I don't own jack.

* * *

Try, Because This Compass is Bust.

~o~

Brittany feels her at the edges of her being every single second of every single day. She's felt her since the moment she set foot in New York City; as though a piece of her soul had been dormant all of this time and suddenly awakened at the insistence of the city's syncopated rhythm to begin searching. She took it in stride, having heard the whispered stories of the few people on this earth fortunate enough to have this corporeal compass which would enable them to find The One.

Her mother had always said she was special ...

But hers must be faulty. The needle never points right, turns frantically in the street when Brittany walks home, head tossing this way and that for a glimpse of the person who could be causing her compass and her heart to beat and spin. 4 months in the city, living in a tiny shitty apartment with a mattress instead of a bed, is the time it takes for Brittany to realize that who she's looking for is the most beautiful, albeit most frustrating, girl in Manhattan.

She first time Brittany catches a glance of her she's getting out of a dance class, sweaty and bone tired.

Brittany is barefoot and wearing her grey Julliard hoodie with sparkly gold leggings, a bottle of water in hand, bag thrown over her shoulder and yawning unattractively when she feels it. Feels her compass needles begin to jerk and her legs moving without her accord down the deserted and dimly illuminated hallway. She follows the feeling outside where night has descended and sits on the steps of the builing, slipping on a pair of shoes from her bag and leaning her chin against a palm as she watches the traffic.

Minutes tick away and the feeling balloons in her chest until Brittany worries she won't be able to breathe around it. But suddenly there she is.

Brittany gasps softly and her arms drop to her sides when she sees her, her girl, flag down a cab on the other side of the street, wild raven hair flying in the wind and pink lips turned into a distressed frown. Brittany begins to move, forgetting her bag and water bottle and letting the urge propel her forward. The girl smiles widely when a cab slows down - Brittany sprints through the street, dodging oncoming cars like something out of an action film - opening the door with a grateful sigh and slipping inside, giving an address and pulling away from the kerb. Brittany tries to call it back, panting hard with tears springing to her eyes.

So close.

* * *

"You're not saying much," Mike says over the din of the restaurant.

They have weekly lunches together to keep in touch and remind themselves that they will always have a familiar face to come to in the city that can swallow you whole. At first, the lunches served the purpose of comparing notes and classes but, eight years on and now Julliard graduates, they're just hours in the day Brittany and Mike take to catch up on lives they built for themselves here.

Mike is an assistant choreographer for the Broadway show 'Killing The Milk-Boy' starring Rachel Berry, has a five o'clock shadow, an apartment that could house a small army, and a fiancée he adores. He's successful in ways Brittany can only dream of but she's not bitter. She's elated that Mike has that kind of joy and satisfaction in his life. She remembers high school when he never thought he'd have this, when Mike used to lower his gaze to the tablecloth at dinner when his father talked about the pre-med program in NYU.

"Not much to say," she responds quietly, tracing the rim of her tea cup with a half-hearted smile.

Mike sighs. "You need a change."

Brittany shrugs minutely.

"I mean it, Britt." He leans back against his seat and cocks his head. "You've got so much potential. I don't know why you never took that job in L.A. That Glee gig was your ticket to bigger and better things."

Glee would have probably made her career. But Brittany hadn't been able to shake the thought of brown eyes and raven hair out of her head when the producers of the show had called her up. She was meant to stay here, meet the girl, fall in love and live happily ever after. No matter how long it took. She couldn't leave. She had to let her compass do the leading for her, not her head.

"At least come to the open auditions for 'Killing the Milk-Boy'. You know I'd give you a killer recommendation."

Brittany's smile is more genuine on account of Mike's attempt to salvage what little dancing career she has left. She'd been a firecracker on the Broadway circuit for years before falling in love with a tiny little dancing school around the corner from her apartment. Performing had developed her as an artist but teaching her kids had made her grow as a person and she didn't think she'd be able to walk away from them now that she knew what it was like to tear up during a recital because she helped that sixteen year old make it into Julliard too.

"Thank's, Mikey. But I'm happy with my students."

He smiles at her a little sadly and reaches for the bill before she can. "At least go out a little more. Go meet someone. You need a little excitement in your life. What on earth are you waiting for?"

Brittany smiles a secret smile when the hands on her compass swing.

* * *

She's running late. It's not the first time and it sure won't be the last, but something feels different about today. Her compass is swinging, her heartbeat is racing, her palms are sweating and her gaze lingers on every black haired woman in the subway with more attention that normal. She leans against a wall and lets her eyes jump through the small crowd waiting to board, trying to read the compass.

She can't.

She's never been able to. She's spent years lying awake in bed trying to figure out how the damn thing worked, how it could lead her to the girl. Only one other person in the world knows she has it: Quinn Fabray, a theatre student she met at a party who attended NYCDA and now performs in Mike's show. Quinn has the same compass inside her; although she hasn't had the task of deciphering it for years considering she's already found her girl. Brittany doesn't know how many times she's called the woman in the early hours of the morning drunk and sobbing, begging for Quinn to teach her how to use the fucking thing.

Quinn told her to be patient. That forcing it would just be counter-productive. The compass would do its job and that the subconscious would pick up on it before Brittany had time to even blink.

The low screech of the train pulling in makes Brittany take a deep breath, scanning around once more for luck before pushing off the wall and hopping inside the carriage. She adjusts her bag as she sits down, takes out her phone and smiles at the barrage of text messages from her sister who just got engaged. Ellie is freaking out about the consequences of her 'Yes', already fast forwarding to kids and mortgages and neighbourhood cook-outs that she abhors. Kevin's text messages on the other hand (Ellie's fiancée) are pure elation and excitement, already asking Brittany to be the godmother of their first child.

She smiles and decides to call.

The first words she hears are, "_Brittany, ohmygod, what have I gotten myself into?_"

"A long loving marriage?" Brittany giggles loudly, quietening at the stern look from the lady with the feather hat sitting across from her.

_"This is so freaky. Do you know what Kevin was doing yesterday? He was looking up strollers online. Strollers, Britt! I don't think I even _like_ kids!"_

Brittany leans back into her seat and crosses her ankles, smiling at the panic in her little sister's voice. Ellie hates change. She recalls the two weeks before she was set to board her plane for NYU being filled with crying (Ellie and her mom), ignoring (Ellie) and sabotage (Ellie and Lord Tubbington). But she'd gotten over it, just like she'll get over this, and then she'll see how amazing it is that Kevin wants to bind his life with hers - and maybe she'll even consider making Brittany a niece or nephew to spoil rotten.

"You'll be fine, bug. Trust me, on your wedding day you won't even know why you were panicking in the first place. You love Kevin."

_"I do love Kevin,"_ Ellie whispers.

"You're just getting cold-feet. Perfectly normal."

"Ugh, I wish you were home. Mom has gone completely overboard with this. She's planning an engagement party fo-"

Brittany tunes out. She inhales sharply and her heartbeat quickens. Her compass spins and the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

She's here.

She moves silently to her feet, hitching her bag over her shoulder and ignoring the look the lady with the feather hat gives her, letting her free hand grasp onto the railings as she moves down the carriage. Ellie's voice chatters on as the train slows and Brittany gets closer and closer to the girl. Her compass jerks unhappily when she stops. A wheelchair is blocking her way and the man it belongs to blushes at her vacant gaze and tries to wheel back, grimacing when his wheels get stuck in a man's umbrella.

The train stops and the doors swish open. Brittany gasps when she sees _her_ at the end of the carriage. God no, she can't let her go again! She can't deal with another four year gap between glimpses of perfection. She becomes frantic and tries to hop over the man in the wheelchair, yelping for the girl to stop and turn and see her. She sprints down the walkway of the carriage, ignoring Ellie's questioning down the line.

"Stop!" she cries. "Please!"

But the girl doesn't hear her. She's got headphones on her head and is tapping her foot against the floor, moving when the doors swish open. Brittany doubles her pace and slams into the doors once they've closed behind the girl of her dreams. At the loud thud that Brittany's body makes against the glass panels, the girl turns and slips her headphones around her neck.

Their eyes meet. Their eyes widen. Brittany feels the tears slide down her cheeks and the girl (large brown eyes, cute button nose, mouth forming an astonished 'o') rushes to the door to place her hands up against the glass separating them. Brittany's nose squishes against it and she knows the girl gets it. Knows that they're meant to be.

Brittany places her lips against the cold glass and almost sobs when the girl reciprocates. It's like she can almost feel the warmth, the love, the _rightness_, closing her eyes tightly and engraving this memory that will never be enough, before the train moves and her girl is holding a hand to her mouth as she cries and falls to her knees watching it pull away. In the carriage Brittany does the same thing, phone and hope falling to the floor.

* * *

"And ... 1, 2, 3, 4, first arabesque!"

The studio is warm and dusty, bodies moving in tandem and gracefully along the floorboards as the recorded playlist for their winter recital plays through the speakers and their dance teacher walks the length of the wall with the mirrors, scrutinizing. They've seen a change in her in the past few weeks. She's noticeably less inclined to laugh at their jokes and her patience is thinner and short-lasting.

"Arabesque croisée!" she calls. "Angela, you're looking sloppy!"

"Sorry, Miss."

"Don't apologise, just fix it!"

And 1, 2, 3, 4, Pliée!"

Brittany watches them for a moment as they run through the dance. She's happy with how far they've progressed in such a short amount of time but there are flaws and they're quite glaring. The excellent reputation of the school depends on them being at their finest now that the establishment is moving up within the ranks of the best schools in the district. The owner is thinking of expanding, turning the school of three studios, into a Conservatory down town. It's an admirable ambition and Brittany, as a teacher and mentor to these kids, has to put in her best effort to make this ambition a reality.

She scowls when Angela falls and then sighs at herself for being so hard on them. They look exhausted and no fifteen year old's should look like they ran a marathon during a 45 minute dance class.

"Warm down guys," she says. "Go over the steps at home and get a -"

"GOOD NIGHT'S REST!" they chorus back at her. She smiles.

They warm down, gather their things and file out. Brittany waits until the last student has closed the door after him before moving towards the Ipod dock and selecting a playlist titled '**Her**'.

When the opening notes of Try by Pink sound, Brittany closes her eyes and feels her body curl in on itself. She moves with a purpose and finesse, with urgency and passion - feeling the lyrics, the music, the soul. She falls to the floor, braces her abdomen and flips back up. A spin. A plieé. A pop and lock. An arch of her back as she bends back on herself and grits her teeth. She dances like the world is watching and feels invincible as her muscles stretch and contract. She doesn't falter. In this moment she is perfection. She falls to her knees when the song ends and breathes harshly against her heaving chest.

"Compass still not working right?"

Brittany looks up to the sympathetic face of Quinn Berry-Fabray and manages a small shake of her head.

"I came to ask if you wanted to come home with Rachel and I for lunch. She's got a rare afternoon off."

Brittany gets to shaky legs and runs a hand through her sweaty loose hair. Quinn walks towards the Ipod dock, and turns Princess of China off, watching Brittany throw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt over her black unitard without a word.

The Berry-Fabray's have the most gorgeous home. Everything is bright and warm, pictures of family and friends littering every wall and surface. Snapshots of Rachel piggybacking on Brittany's back are blue tacked to the fridge and cupboards and Brittany feels a warmth bubble up at the sight of them that has nothing to do with the cup of tea Quinn hands her.

"Quinn and I have been talking and we think it's time that we help you with your compass." Rachel moves to pick up Brittany's hand and holds it gingerly between both of hers.

"Yeah?" she asks hopefully.

Quinn bites her bottom lip, glancing at Rachel like she's the most precious thing. "Yeah."

* * *

Lesson one takes place in Central Park, sitting on a bench and watching a man try to eat his hotdog without spilling ketchup on his good suit. Brittany snorts and Quinn glares at her.

"I thought you were concentrating?"

"I am," Brittany whines.

"You're not."

"This is stupid. It's never worked before why would it work now?" she sighs. Quinn rolls her eyes and hits her shoulder.

Brittany lost all faith in this plan an hour ago when Quinn sat her down and told her to concentrate on the needles and what way they were pointing. The task proved disastrous because Brittany's compass has always had a mind of it's own and never stays still; unless her girl has the gift of by-location. That would be neat. She could get takeout and still snuggle at the same time ...

She's so lost in thoughts of watching a bad movie and eating cheap Chinese with her girl that she doesn't notice when her needles swing in one decisive location. It's only when she feels a shiver travel down her spine that Brittany snaps out of her reverie, just in time to follow the direction of her compass, the needle pointing clearly to the girl of her dreams jogging passed, music blearing in her ears.

"IT'S HER!" she yelps.

Quinn gawks at the girl as she turns a corner out of sight before Brittany is out of her seat and taking off after her like a woman possessed. She groans and runs after them both.

Decidedly, Brittany thinks as she gasps and wills her feet to keep moving, this is a rather unromantic way of meeting the love of her life. But hell, she'll take it. She doubles her efforts now that she can see her girl stopping at a bench to stretch. She starts to call out through her laboured breaths, praying to God that nothing will prevent her from taking the girl in her arms.

Her girl looks up with a little when she approaches, yelping excitedly when she realizes who it is barrelling towards her, and any potential words of protest are muffled by Brittany's lips on her own and her arms crushing the girl's body to hers. Brittany moans at the taste of home on her lips and at the spin of her compass and the feeling of absolute love she feels in her heart. This is it. She's not letting go, ever.

"Brittany!" she gaps when they part breathlessly. "I'm Brittany."

"Santana," her girl murmurs with another lingering kiss.

And Brittany gathers her close, kissing her long and deep and slow and promising to never to let Santana slip away again as Quinn runs up behind them and fans her sweaty red face.

They never get to lesson two.

* * *

They're naked, sated and kissing on Brittany's bed that evening. Santana nuzzles her face in the juncture between Brittany's neck and shoulder, kissing the spot lazily as Brittany breathes out blissfully. Santana's hand rubs small circles across the top of Brittany's chest, reverent and calm.

"So you're compass started working again?" she says around a kiss, delighting in the way Brittany is tugging her so much closer, never close enough.

"It was always working," Brittany says after a moment of thought. "I was just forcing it too much. It's only when I was thinking about you without any sort of pressure, or about what we could have, that I really listened to it. Does that make sense?"

"A little," Santana says. She pauses. "I knew at the subway that you were mine."

"Yeah?" Brittany's eyes glitter in the low light.

Santana nods. "It broke my heart when I couldn't get to you."

They hold tightly. "Me too," Brittany whispers.

"Don't let go," Santana says in a tiny voice, burrowing into her girlfriend's body.

"Never."

* * *

A/N: I always thought I had a malfunctioning compass in my chest.


End file.
